Silent as Night is, And as Deep
by Saucery
Summary: Approximately 1000 words of gentle, post-apocalyptic angst. My own version of the Avalon myth and the undying hope of Arthur's return.


**Silent as Night is, And as Deep**

* * *

Be thy sleep  
Silent as night is, and as deep.  
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

* * *

After Arthur leaves, Merlin can do nothing but wait.

He knows that it's futile to wait; Arthur will return, but not within Merlin's lifetime. They will never meet again. The Old Religion tells him so, strings of prophecy unraveling at last, no longer holding them together. Arthur isn't dead, he's asleep - but he will awaken many years from now, long after Merlin has passed from the earth, and never the twain shall meet.

Or so the magic says. Merlin doesn't quite know how to mourn, or whether he _should_ mourn at all; it's so strange, to grieve and not to grieve, to part and not to part. Merlin does not weep. He returns, instead, to Camelot - not because of duty, although he _is_ needed in the wake of the war - but because of Arthur, and because Camelot is all that's left of him.

Merlin can hear Arthur, sometimes: along the battlements, the whisper of his voice in the dawn-pale wind, memories of having talked to him there, of leaving for Ealdor alone, of returning together. He doesn't go to Arthur's quarters. He doesn't need to. Instead, Merlin only takes _care_ of Camelot, as Queen Guinevere's most trusted advisor, and in the hopes of its people and the rebuilding of its stone he finds Arthur, touches him in the implacability of new masonry and the tenderness of old silk, and remembers, and remembers, and remembers.

It feels very much like a long, strange dream.

Does Arthur dream?

Arthur sleeps, wrapped in blood-stained cloth that will no doubt turn brown as the decades pass, or perhaps even the centuries - and when Arthur awakens, it will be in a world that knows nothing of him, a world without Merlin in it, where Merlin won't be there to help him, to save him, from anything that might come.

Perhaps it was cruel, to save Arthur's life. To leave him so unmoored, in a future unknown to them both; to leave him without a companion. Merlin will never be able to anchor him, ever again - and without his own anchor, Merlin himself drifts through the eddies of his remaining life as if they were the sands of an hourglass, tipping forever towards emptiness, inevitable as the tide.

The years pass. Merlin's hands grow wrinkled; his beard flowing and generous. Children in the street make fun of it - or marvel at it, or do both at once. Merlin walks past the fruit seller at whose shop Merlin had nearly defeated Arthur by magical means, many a year ago upon their first meeting; it is the seller's daughter who works there, now, as does a slender granddaughter who makes eyes at the young butcher next door.

Camelot has recovered; it is a vision, after all, the dream of a sleeping man, and dreams live as long as the dreamer does. Camelot survives, buoyed by the faith of many, of those dispossessed and helpless and seeking a home; it survives in the hands of those who lift Camelot's banners and fight under its shield, in the hands of those who help and shelter and feed and clothe. Yes, it survives as a dream does, or a desperately-loved memory - a memory so adored that it populates the minds of the living, and moves youthful hearts to swear fealty to a king that they have never known. The knights sit at the Round Table and leave one chair empty; Merlin stands at its shoulder, as he always has. Matters of law are conducted as usual; granaries are filled; rosters allocated. And if Merlin sometimes makes as if to touch Arthur's absent elbow, or to speak to a missing king, the knights do not take note of it; it is the only kindness they can do him, because they're good men, and they know when to look away.

Guinevere, too, has survived. Her eyes have grown quiet and her smile even gentler; she has acquired the calm of a sea whom all storms have abandoned. She is a remarkable queen. Her once-sable hair is now white, and her once-smooth brow now lined - but as Merlin watches her and watches _over_ her, he sees in her what Arthur had loved. It almost doesn't hurt - almost - to see it now. Together, they uphold Arthur's legacy. She has chosen an adoptive heir, although he is yet a child; and when that heir comes of age, Merlin will take charge of him, and will tutor him as best he can. He will tell of old battles and ill fortunes, and the king who vanquished them all; he will tell of chivalry and honor and courage, and the virtues that do not pass. Merlin will keep alive, in every personage and in the very brick and mortar of this city, Arthur's memory. So that when Arthur wakes, not _all_ will be foreign to him - and although he may never meet Merlin again, he will know, upon his return, that Merlin had kept things ready for him. Ready as he'd never kept them before.

_You're the worst servant I've ever had_, Merlin hears, as he passes by the battlements again.

_Indeed, Sire_. Merlin glides his hand along the warm stone, as if along a shoulder, and feels the wind turn north - towards Avalon. _Sleep well._

* * *

**fin.**


End file.
